(Looking down Nicholson Street from the Palace Green. I picture Harmer's about 2 1/2 blocks down on the left)

 

THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

 

PART NINETY-SIX:

"Well," Eden sighed, "we've got them up to August."

"We only started in May, you know," Marshall pointed out.

"And it's a long war. Good thing you've already done so much of that."  She looked at him a long moment. "I was surprised she asked Morgan to marry her."

"I was surprised when Parker almost killed him," he grinned.

"It gave you the perfect set-up, though, didn't it?"

"Indeed. I think it will work much better now when he finally goes off to war that he is her husband. Changes the level of it."

"Husbands in danger. I can relate to that," she said softly.

"We weren't married yet."

"I've been married to you since before I was born."

It was early September, eleven days after Harmer had left for Philadelphia that a thick packet arrived for Morgan.  Micah carried it in to the parlor where Morgan was sitting on the couch, listening to Susannah play the harpsichord.

"Ah, I'm glad she plays," Marshall commented.

"You play. Actually, I wish you played more. I love it when you do."

"This evening, then, after dinner."

"Good."

They'd been so occupied of late with plans for the nursery and writing the novel that it had

been more than two weeks since he'd played his piano. With the trip to England growing so near, they'd wanted to get as much done on the book as possible. And only a month after they would return home, there was that meeting in Campeche they had to attend. Well, Marshall

had to attend it, but she was definitely going along. It seemed his father's business interests

were somewhat more involved than he'd realized. That he practically owned a large factory

in the Yucatan seemed strange to both of them.

"Fo' you, Suh," Micah said, presenting the packet to Morgan.

Morgan took it, turning it over in his hands. At first he'd thought it might be from his father,

but the return address was from a London solicitor whose name he only vaguely recalled having heard before.

"What is it, darling?" Susannah asked, dropping her hands to her lap.

"I'm not sure." He undid the thin leather tie that bound the packet shut, letting the outer paper

sift down to the rug by his feet. Brow furrowed, he unfolded the top paper, a letter of some sort,

and began to read. Clara, knitting in a chair across the room, set her needles down, watching Morgan.  His face paled and he turned to one side, placing a hand over his eyes.

"Morgan?" Clara said, concerned.  She'd come to know he was waiting for a letter from his

father. If this was it, then the man had not taken his son's news well.

From the way Clara had said his name, Susannah instantly knew something was amiss. She left

the harpsichord and sure-footedly crossed the room to the couch, sitting beside him.  With her hand, she found the packet on his lap, raised her hand more and discovered the position he was

in. "Darling? Is it news from your father?"

He sighed and turned back, his lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes dropping again to the letter

he held. "Not from him, no. About him."

"What...?"

"He's dead.  This is from his solicitor. Seems his heart failed in mid-July. My letter arrived after

he was gone." He looked at Susannah. "He never knew about us, about my decision."

"Oh, darling!" She touched his cheek. "I'm so sorry."

He set aside the letter, unfolding more papers, glancing at them one after the other. It was his father's estate. His older sister was well provided for and the bulk of it had been transferred into Morgan's name.  With war coming, Morgan wasn't quite sure what that would mean. He had no intention of going back to England to run a shipping business. Since he'd been feeling better,

he'd been handling certain matters for it here in Virginia but war would mean the cessation of trade. Perhaps if he hurried, if there were yet time, he could have a certain amount of that

shifted so it would be available to him here in the Colonies. He would have to ask George Wythe for advice. 

Already Patrick Henry was referring to himself as an 'American'  and openly discussing the formation of five or six thousand men into Virginia companies. Morgan knew a non-importation bill had been introduced in the Burgesses in an attempt to send a clear message to Britain. It seemed every day brought them closer to the brink of war, and now the Continental Congress

was in session in Philadelphia. He needed to think...but one of his headaches was getting a firm grip since he'd tensed so while reading the news about his father.

"I'm fine," he said, kissing Susannah's cheek and rising to his feet.

Eden looked at Marshall. "He's like you, my love. He's always just 'fine'."

"No train tracks through the middle of Colonial Williamsburg for him to get his legs cut off," Marshall shrugged with a grin.

"And a good thing that is, too, mister. I have a hard enough time keeping you off the tracks."

"I'm fine," he said, tipping his chin up.

"I need to speak with Mr. Wythe," he explained. "There's a ship leaving for England on the morning tide and it seems I need to make certain arrangements."

"You're not...you wouldn't...." Susannah gasped.

"Oh, sweetheart, not me! No. I need to send letters as soon as possible to deal with my father's shipping company. I'm afraid a great portion of it will simply be lost to me but I would like to

see what I can salvage before war comes. I'm hoping Mr. Wythe can draw up some legal documents for me in response to these." He kissed her again. "I'll return as soon as I can, darling." He strode quickly toward the door, the papers in his hand, forgetting his hat.

When he'd gone, Clara said, "He didn't look right to me, Susannah. I think he had one of his headaches."

"Micah," Susannah called, "will you please follow Morgan. He's going to Mr. Wythe's and I

just want to make sure he's all right."

Micah went to the door, smoothly taking Morgan's hat off the rack as he passed.  He was a quiet man, but he noticed everything. Once past the front pickets, he saw Morgan striding along Nicholson toward the Palace Green.

It was hot, a brilliant sun beating down on his bare head as he hurried along, his mind racing

with the fact of his father's death and with all that needed attending to as quickly as he could. 

He had last seen his father in the spring, just before he sailed for Virginia. It had never occurred

to him he'd never see him again. Even though Edward Kent was not a warm man by nature, Morgan had spent most of his life in his company and the thought that he was gone forever

pierced through him in ways even he had not realized it would.

 

He crossed the Green, unaware of the Palace to his right, of the lawn beneath his shoes, of Mr. Peterson who bid him good day. On the far side of the Green, he stumbled, braced himself against

a stout maple, and simply stopped there, leaning his forehead against the bark, his head pounding.  He was tense and he'd walked too fast and he needed to sit down.

 

Across the street was a bench that backed up to Wythe's front wall. He made for it almost blindly, sitting heavily, the papers sliding from his hand to the brick walk.  Leaning forward, he held his head, rocking just slightly. Then Micah was there, gathering up the papers, setting them on the bench beside Morgan. He waited until Morgan straightened and dropped his hands to his lap. "Done forgot yore hat, Suh," he said quietly, proffering the object.

"What? Oh, Micah. I...I'm...."

Micah set the tricorn atop the papers. "I'll jest be lettin' Marse Wythe know you is here, Suh,"

he said, turning to mount the four steps to the small porch and pull the bell at the black front

doors.

Wythe himself, who had been passing through his entrance hall, opened the door. "Micah, what brings you here today?"

Micah stepped back, half-turning, nodding toward where Morgan sat on the bench. "Marse Kent, he got things he need speak wid you about, Suh, but he ain' doin' so well dis minute."

"Help him inside, Micah." Wythe turned to call down the hall. "Jerusha, I'll be needing a glass

of cool water in my office."

"Marse Kent, Suh, de do' open now. You come wid Micah an' les' go on in."

"Thank you, Micah."  With a sigh, Morgan stood, and Micah took hold of his arm, picking up

the hat and papers with his free hand. 

 

Wythe's office was at the rear of his house, at the end of the wide hallway on the left. It was in

here that he had taught Jefferson much of what made him the man he'd become.  Micah got Morgan settled in a chair, then said, "I jes' be waitin' fo' you out front, Marse Kent," then he

was gone.

Jerusha, Wythe's housekeeper, came in with a large glass of water on a small tray, cool and

fresh from the pumphouse. Morgan took it gratefully, his hand shaking a bit as he drank it.

"Didn't realize it was so hot today," he said, smiling weakly.

Wythe had been through every step of this ordeal with Morgan and was well aware of the toll it

had taken on the young man. He completely doubted if he himself would even have survived it.  Never one to beat around the bush, he asked straight off, "Has something happened, Morgan?"

Morgan lowered the glass, adding his left hand to hold it as well as though it were suddenly

heavy, his eyes fastened on the remaining water.  "My father is dead," he said, his voice low.

"I am sorry to hear of that, Morgan. You have my most sincere condolences."

Morgan lifted his eyes to the older man's face, "Thank you, Sir." He set the glass down on the round table with its dark green cloth and fumbled to pick up the slim stack of papers, handing

them toward Wythe. "I...I'd like your advice, Sir, on what to do about these...given the present circumstances."

Wythe took the papers, looking through them, then smiled at Morgan. "I think I can help you

with this, my dear young man." And for the next hour and a half the two men worked intensively preparing documents to be sent out on the morning tide. Wythe even arranged for one of his men

to deliver them to Capitol Landing.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am, Sir," Morgan said, standing to leave. His face was pinched

with pain from the effort of the concentration required to handle all the many legal details and

his headache had settled completely down the back of his neck as well as in his head.

Looking at him, Wythe said, "Let me arrange for my carriage to take you home, Morgan."

"It is only a matter of three blocks, Sir," Morgan protested.

"Nonetheless, I beg you to indulge me in this." 

And so it was, with Micah riding up front with Wythe's driver, Morgan was delivered safely into

the arms of Susannah...and Clara...and Myra...and Layla.  Before he knew what happened, he

was tucked up into bed, the curtains were drawn, he'd been fed soup, and his wife was sitting on

the edge of his bed, folding a cool, damp cloth.

"You push yourself, my darling," she said.

"It had to be done. There is so little time left."

"I am sorry about your father."

"My news would not have pleased him. I know that."

"But you were not disowned. He died feeling as he always did for you. Perhaps that was for the best."

"I didn't like the thought that he could despise me."

"You are his son, his only son. I doubt that he would have despised you."

Morgan, though, was not so sure about that. Edward Kent's life was entirely English.  He would never have understood, never countenanced his son choosing Virginia. He thought about his earlier conversation with Washington about what it meant to be a Virginian, what it might
cost one to make that choice.  Sighing, he closed his eyes. He was very tired. Making a little murmuring sound, he began to drift into sleep. "Virginia,"he said, his voice barely audible, "home."

Susannah smiled, unutterably glad that he had come to feel that way.  Virginia had always been, would always be, home for her, but Morgan had come into her life and now he was, for her, the heart of  that home, the very soul of it.  He was sleeping now, and she leaned forward, resting

her cheek on his chest so that she might hear home's heartbeat.

 

ON TO PART 97

 

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